The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins by Claire C. Riley Read Free Book Online

shouting from the car door to warn her, but decide that could send the guy into a panic and make the situation worse for the woman. Ken calls me a goody two-shoes, and I guess he’s right. I know he wouldn’t even be considering walking into a situation like this, risking his own life for someone else. But I can’t just walk away from this—from her—knowing that she could be in danger. Call me an idiot or call me kind; I just don’t want someone’s death on my conscience.
    I finally turn to my left, ready to exit the car, and am met with the face of another man—if you can call him that. His face is beaten to a pulp, swollen and bleeding. I panic, thinking that he’s possibly been attacked by the same junkie that chased me, and my hand instinctively goes to the handle. But then this man hits my window with the palm of his hand and bares his teeth at me, and I let out a small yelp of surprise and jump in my seat.
    His other hand comes up to hit the window and I yelp again as he begins to pound both hands on the window and growls at me. Growls! A small splinter cracks through the window and I scream as it abruptly implodes on me, showering me with tiny pieces of glass. The man reaches in and grabs at me, his hands finding purchase on my hair, and he leans in and begins to yank on my long, red locks.
    I scream and pull away, the smell of him invading my nose and making me gag. I feel the metal of the tire iron in my hand and swing out blindly, feeling it hit him in several places, but his grip never loosens and he never responds in pain—not unless his constant growling could be considered that. I swing back hard as his body leans further into the car, almost leaning down onto my lap, and somehow I manage to hit him hard on the crown of his head. The sound of metal on skull makes a sickening cracking sound, and then I feel the tire iron sink into his skull.
    The man stops moving with my hair still clutched in his fist, and I realize I’m screaming as I pull and tug my head to get away from him. My hand has let go of the tire iron, leaving it where it landed, embedded in his skull, and I don’t know what scares me more: the fact that I am now weaponless or the fact that my weapon is still implanted in someone’s head. I hear the sound of my hair ripping free from his hand, and I can finally look up at the destruction.
    He’s still leaning half in the car, hanging over the broken glass of the door, which is cutting into his body. Blood trails down the doorway, toxic-smelling gases escaping from his stomach cavity. His hand is closed tight around a clump of my hair, strands of it sticking up through the top of his fist. His head hangs low, the tire iron firmly implanted in his skull. Broken pieces of head and brain matter are splattered across his hair and up the length of the weapon, and the sight makes me gag. I cover my mouth as vomit rises from my throat, spraying out between my fingers and covering my lap and steering wheel in the partially digested meal I ate earlier.
    I sob loudly, squeezing my eyes closed, and try to take a deep breath, but the panic won’t stop rising, the smell of the dead man invading every orifice and making my eyes stream. I turn to look at him again, gagging but not being able to vomit anything out of my empty stomach. I push at his shoulder gently, trying to get him out of my door, but he doesn’t budge. I push again, putting a hand on either shoulder and feeling his body move ever so slowly. I push once again, harder this time, feeling spurred on when his body begins to slide backwards until the force of his own weight pulls him out of my doorway and I sob again at the sound of his body hitting the ground.
    I take a shaky breath, staring straight ahead. Now that I’m not screaming I can hear sirens in the distance, the wails of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances all melding into one excessively loud siren. A blast rocks the horizon, a cloud of smoke with a ball of fire